


Brilliance in Reflection

by HSavinien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor Reclaimed, Everybody Lives, Fíli Feels, Injury, Libraries, Nonbinary Dwarves, Ori Is A Sweetheart, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: Fíli may finally be getting the hang of this Heir thing with Ori to help with the historical bits.  Of course, Bilbo and Thorin have thrown a bit of a snag into the plan.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThorinOakenfeels (inkgeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkgeek/gifts).



> Thanks to AHiddenKitty for beta and Britpicking. Happy Holidays, ThorinOakenfeels (inkgeek)!

The Library of Erebor stretched deep into the mountain, its main hall dug along a long-exhausted vein of amethyst. Pale lavender light reflected from the walls, small crystals of negligible value left behind to display the beauty of the mountain's natural treasures. Every time Fíli stepped inside, there was the overwhelming impression of having ventured into a jewelry box belonging to some dwarf deeply enamored of the color purple. All the shelves were worked into the stone itself, for security and anti-flammability, which had served to protect the Library somewhat during Smaug's habitation. The texts nearer the entrance had suffered, but many of those – being the showpieces of the collection – were made of stone and needed only cleaning and minor repair. The new librarians and scholars that poured into Erebor were hard at work reconstructing the ones that had been made of cloth and vellum.

Fíli, despite being Heir to the throne of Erebor, hadn't spent much time in this part of the mountain yet. There was much else to do; the more damaged living spaces and the blocked chimneys that had once served both the great smithies and the kitchens having taken priority in reconstruction efforts. Now though, Fíli had a purpose here and one small scholar to track down.

Peering at the nearest shelves for hints, Fíli saw that they were arranged chronologically. It made a sort of sense. The Library was a great branching sprawl, so the first main seam held the Making of the Dwarves and the genealogy of the Seven, the story of the early years of Mahal's folk, then branched and split into the different studies and paths that made up the whole realms of dwarven knowledge. Fíli wandered down the main hall, passing the off-shoots marked “Warfare”, “Craft” (a cavern that had been chosen particularly for its width and the structural stability of the surrounding rock, so that it could be expanded as necessary), and “Geography”. Just past the hall for “Other Peoples” (the section on hobbits was currently being updated with Bilbo's help and there were already far fewer references to “halflings”) lay the branch for “Rule and Law”.

“Ori?” Fíli called down that hall, in as polite a manner as possible. Bilbo had said the scholars got really tetchy about people making noise while they were studying.

An orange-gowned dwarf with thick dark braids and the wide, brown face of the descendants of the Southern lineages tutted, spectacles glinting pointedly at Fíli. “Master Ori is farther back and won't be found by shouting. Use your feet, not your mouth, youngster.” One hand gestured Fíli further down the shelves of “Rule and Law”, while the other marked a page in the book the scholar was copying from.

Fíli gaped, but did as instructed, giggling internally at not being recognized and stepped gingerly down the hall, trying not to jingle. Today was not the day to have worn the waistcoat with metal aglets that Bilbo had made last winter. Tracing a hand over the runework and some of the finer tactile carvings in the walls, Fíli strode deeper into the hall, looking around with interest at the rows and rows of shelves. Some were chambered like honeycomb for rolled scrolls, some broad and flat for stacked tablets, some packed with leatherbound books.

It was a bit odd sometimes, not sharing the line of Durin's tendency for dark hair. Thorin, officially crowned king now, with all the diplomatic duties that required, couldn't set foot anywhere in the mountain without dwarves making much of the Savior of Erebor. (The title had stuck, despite protestations from Thorin and much amusement from the Company, particularly Bilbo, who was proving adept at maneuvering out of any attempt to attach it to _him_ instead.) Fíli was always safely off to the side of any official function and tended to be overlooked unless Kíli was making mischief, at which point it was practically _duty_ to aid one's sibling. That happened less often now. Dwalin was training Kíli up as a general, with Nori and Bombur's help, as it became more and more clear that Fíli's sibling had a positive talent for logistics and supply. It made sense. Kíli's skill with the bow had fed not only their family, but a number of the less well-supplied cousins and relations back in the Blue Mountains.

Three years after the reclamation, Fíli had started to get a feel for Erebor, but the library was still an unknown. Clearly, Ori needed visiting at work more often. Fíli should know every bit of the kingdom and its people, including irritable librarians.

The hall narrowed the further Fíli went, shifting from the grandiose enormity of the main hall down to a perfectly serviceable five paces of easy movement between the rows of shelves marching down either side. It grew more homey too. Shelving decoration turned to simpler, later styles, while benches and chairs sported soft purple cushions, some still threadbare from neglect. By the time Fíli found Ori, tucked into a writing nook, it seemed to fit the scholar much better. Ori was tiny and lovely, fierce as needed, but as overshadowed by the glittering vastness of the main hall as by Dori's complex, polished beauty. Here, there were warm, wood accents, a riot of pens and inkwells showing different-colored labels, and a glass lamp gilded in back to cast a golden glow over the scribe's work in a perfect, ideal image of The Copyist.

Ori looked up and grinned before Fíli could speak. “Heard you coming. You know, I think Bilbo belled you and Kíli for Balin when he gave you those waistcoats for Yule.”

Fíli shrugged. “Probably. Now, why has my esteemed white-bearded cousin sent me to visit you, pleasant as the change may be from the lectures I usually get about ruling and responsibilities?”

“More lectures, with the hope you'll duck these lessons less often,” Ori said cheerfully, then sobered. “I know you don't think you're ready, but...”

“But they're leaving,” Fíli said softly, looking at everything but Ori. “Amad won't live here for more than short visits and Kíli would rather kiss an orc.”

There was a chair across the desk and Fíli slumped in it, in exactly the way that made Balin despair at official dinners. Thorin did the same thing, but got away with it by being out of poking range.

“More or less.” Ori patted Fíli's hand sympathetically.

Fíli turned it over to catch Ori's hand and hold tight for just a moment. “My thanks, for what it's worth.”

Ori twiddled a braid and pulled the hand back to shuffle through the papers and books on the desk. “Right, yes, you're welcome, um.”

“Now,” Fíli said briskly. “What trick have you to help lodge these trade agreements in my head? I suppose that's where we're starting; it's where Balin dinged me across the ear and went to have a smoke with Bofur.”

“Oh, yes.” Ori shuffled the papers around, gazed into the distance for a moment, then began, “Now King Óin – five-times descendant of Durin the Latest – called by the dwarves of the Grey Mountains Lawspeaker and the Traveler, and occasionally That Wretched Ingrate-”

Fíli let out a whoop of laughter, then muffled it in the crook of an elbow. “ _What?_ ”

Ori grinned. “I found the journals of Óin's predecessor, Glóin, who gave up the throne for retirement and fine leatherwork. It seems that Glóin disagreed a trifle with Óin's decisions. Shall I go on?”

“This is already better than Balin's lists.” Fíli crossed both arms on the table, chin propped on them, and looked up expectantly.

“Right. Let's see. That Wretched Ingrate...journeyed extensively around Middle-Earth, meeting and befriending the tribes of men and ha- _hobbits_ and even elves.”

“Oh hoh!”

“Yes, exactly. Now listen as I tell you the tale of those friendships and the utter outrage of Óin's adad as the King of Durin's line went about consorting with non-dwarves of all sorts...”

Fíli listened, watching the animation in Ori's face and gesticulating arms, and entirely amused by the tales of rascality that had never been part of history lessons before.

Some time later, a deliberately-tapping foot brought Fíli's head around to find Bilbo, standing at the entrance to Ori's nook with his arms crossed and brow furrowed.

Fíli quickly ran through the day's mental list of Heir Duties, but couldn't come up with any that had been skipped, conveniently 'forgotten', or half-forged.

“Hello Mister Baggins!” Fíli grinned winningly. It wasn't as rakishly charming a grin as Kíli's, but generally got the desired result. “What service can I perform for the Dread Burglar, Riddle-maker, Conqueror of Kingly Hearts, et cetera?”

Bilbo's lips twitched, the foot stopped tapping, and he sighed. “You've both just completely forgotten, haven't you?”

Ori made a worried little noise behind Fíli, drawing both their gazes and started scrabbling in the papers, coming up with a little jeweled watch on a chain. Fíli recognized it as Ori's last birthday gift from Dori, while the pen stuck through a handy loop in the chain was delicate gold and almost certainly Nori's work. Ori flicked the watch open and sighed. “Oh dear.”

“Yes, 'oh dear',” Bilbo said. “Come along quick, both of you. Bombur's already held supper back for you two half an hour. It's Sterday and half-past nine already and I don't see everybody all together but once a week as it is.”

Fíli's mouth fell open. “It can't be that late already, Ori only just started telling me about the trade agreements an hour ago.”

“Not unless you got as lost as your uncle on the way down here,” Bilbo said briskly.

“Three hours,” Ori added apologetically, brandishing the watch.

“Now come _along_ before Dwalin and Glóin storm the kitchen and none of us get anything but crumbs,” Bilbo continued. He flapped his hands at them like they were geese until both dwarves gathered themselves up and set off at a trot for the library entrance. “It smelled lovely. Bombur said it’s a new, hobbit-inspired dish of his; onion, mushrooms, and squash slow-fried in a huge lot of butter, then mixed in with chunks of potato and set to bake.”

Fíli's mouth started watering and the sudden mighty gurgling noises coming from beneath the merrily-jingling waistcoat aglets as they hurried up the main hall suggested that it was indeed as late as Bilbo suggested. Grumbling followed them from several desks scattered between the shelves, but Bilbo threw pleasantries behind him like firecrackers, leaving scholars dazed in his wake.

* * *

They slid into their seats to uproar and teasing from the rest of the Company. Bombur sighed in great relief, plopping down an enormous serving dish full of a motley of golden squash and paler potatoes, with dark chunks of mushroom speckling it like lodestones. The smell of butter and slow-browned onions drove the growling in Fíli's stomach to new operatic heights. With a quick swoop, the big cook nabbed an enormous forkful, parrying Bofur's out of the way before Dori snatched the bowl up to start dishing it out in an orderly fashion.

“No manners, not one of you,” Dori scolded, serving Thorin and Balin large helpings with only a little more force than was advisable, considering the consistency of the dish. Balin scraped a dollop of potato off one beard tip.

Bilbo got a generous portion next, then Fíli and Kíli. Luckily, Dori was quick as well as strong and soon everyone dug into the heaping piles of potato and squash. Bilbo made a noise on his first bite that was frankly alarming.

“Marvelous,” he informed Bombur, eyes looking a trifle damp. “I'm sure I've never eaten quite this dish before, but it's exactly like something my father would have cooked.”

Bombur blushed, waving a hand.

“It wasn't so hard to get the potatoes and squash now that Dale's got their gardens in order again,” Bofur chimed in, “But, oh the things our Bombur can do with the proper ingredients.”

Bombur looked ready to hide behind their cousin. Bifur patted the big cook with one hand and continued eating with the other. “Nothing much,” Bombur murmured.

“Nothing much,” Kíli muttered around a mouthful. “When Bilbo's been lamenting squash the last year and a half. You're just trying to bribe him into staying.”

The cheerful noise of thirteen dwarves stuffing their faces dropped into somber contemplative chewing. Bilbo's whole face drooped.

“I...suppose I did mean to talk about that tonight,” said Bilbo.

“ _We_ ,” Thorin interjected, “meant to talk about that tonight.”

Thorin rose, clasped both hands together, then let them fall with a tiny wince. Bilbo grabbed the left one in both of his and rose too.

“I like you all dearly,” Bilbo said quietly. “I like you quite a lot more than I like many of my relatives, in fact. You and the quest made me into someone I don't think I've been properly since my parents died. My mother raised me to care about more than lovely brass buttons, but I'd forgot it without anyone to remind me of what home means when you haven't got it.” He paused and Thorin shifted in closer, almost leaning on Bilbo. “And I wish I could make Erebor my home forever and live with all of you, but I can't. I'm so sorry. I've tried these past years now and I can feel myself...thinning around the edges. The mountain is lovely, I can see it and I love it because of what it means to you all, but I think I'm withering, being out of the Shire for so long. I...I don't think Yavanna's children were meant to be away from the green like this, and visits to the kitchen-gardens of Dale and the steppe-gardens up on Erebor don't seem to be enough.”

Fíli glanced sideways at a sudden movement and saw Óin nodding, ear-trumpet drooping. Ori let out a great racking gulp and Fíli saw tears threatening there. Fíli looked away and shoved a napkin into Ori's hand, patting it clumsily.

Then Thorin took up the thread and it was even worse. “I have no greater pride than in being your King, but I find myself unfit-”

The Company burst into a motley explosion of denial, outrage, and general upset.

Dwalin's roar burst through over the hubbub, “Everybody shut your mouths and let Thorin speak!” The other dwarves quieted down to grumbling and Dwalin nodded at Thorin. “Go on then, but if this's to do with the gold-sickness-”

“It's not.” Thorin sighed. “No, _that_ I no longer fear I'll fall to, not with my watchful advisers to help me.”

“And me to give you a smack when you get high-and-mighty,” Bilbo added in an undertone, just loud enough for Fíli to hear and have to hide the frantic impulse to grin.

“I find myself unfit to rule Erebor as it deserves,” Thorin said. “The injuries I took in the Battle of the Five Armies damaged my lungs worse than we first thought. Óin, I permit any of this Company to know the details if they so wish.” The healer nodded again, and Thorin continued, “While no dwarves mark such a wound as a barrier to kingship, I find myself unable to be the sort of king I wish Erebor to have. My shortness of breath means that I can no longer spend my time walking every corner of the mountain, speaking with every person living here.” Thorin's hand crept up to the breast of the embroidered jacket Bilbo had made, a gesture Fíli saw more and more often these last months.

“I know you all have had some idea this was coming,” Bilbo said. “It's no secret that we've been planning to retire to Bag End, but we wanted to tell our friends and family...that is, Thorin's family-”

“Oh, come off it, laddie,” Glóin called hoarsely. “We adopted you years ago.”

“Well, if you say so, thank you,” Bilbo said, dashing a hand across his cheek. “Our family, then. We wanted to tell our family officially, before everyone else.”

“We're leaving in a month,” Thorin said abruptly.

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but nodded. The roar of dismay was even louder this time.

Fíli fell back in the chair, flattened, then grabbed Kíli's sleeve to tug an ear within shouting range. “I thought we had at least half a year left!” Kíli looked shifty.

Fíli noticed that Nori, lounging in the chair beside Dwalin's, didn't look very surprised either. Fíli poked Kíli hard.

“Yes, _fine_. Nori and I have been putting together supplies in what was supposed to be a training thing,” Kíli growled. “Thorin had me hire a wagon and Bifur's been showing me how to talk the ravens into taking messages from Bilbo without taking chunks out of the recipients with those huge great beaks of theirs. Some went to the Shire, one of them was off to Beorn, and another may've been addressed to that Elrond fellow. I don't read tengwar that well yet.”

Thorin's hands landed on both their shoulders. “We'll talk after supper. I'm sorry.” Fíli looked up and Thorin's gaze was fond and sorrowful and bone-deep tired.

* * *

They talked. Fíli wasn't much happier about it afterward.

Hiding in Ori's little nook in the library listening to epic tales of historical friendships and grudges was better than trying to pretend to Bilbo and Thorin that Fíli was ready for them to leave. When Ori asked Fíli to repeat back the main points of the stories, Fíli found that it worked. The tales stuck the relevant details of trade and alliance much better in the memory than lessons. And sometimes Ori would forget who was there and pet Fíli's hair during the quieter parts of the stories.

Fíli forgave Thorin within the week, of course. Thorin and Bilbo's reasons for leaving made sense. Mahal, Thorin hadn't known peace and rest since before the dragon, since before Thror started suffering the gold-sickness. And Bilbo hadn't looked exactly well for months, once Fíli noticed it. They deserved a life beyond the pressures of Erebor, whether Fíli felt up to taking on the burdens of kingship or not.

Some days later, Ori paused in explaining why the borders of the Greenwood as it had been and Mirkwood as it was now had shifted (there were lots of giants spiders involved) and placed both hands flat on the desk. “You know, you won't be a terrible king.”

Fíli laughed in shock. “Well, thank you-”

“No, I mean it,” Ori said, smacking the table with startling force (always surprising, the strength of that family despite their delicate beauty). “Even on your own, even with less time to prepare than you've had, you wouldn't be a bad king. You're not stupid or careless, you're not cruel or _nearly_ as prickly as half your respected family have been. You're not one likely to go war-mongering or demanding tribute. You wouldn't ever be a _bad_ king. And you're not going to be alone.” Ori grasped Fíli's hand. “You'll not be alone until the whole Company and our descendants are gone. We are here and we'll help you. Balin will help you with gravitas and complex legal things and Bofur with morale and understanding the needs of the miners. Dwalin and Nori will help Kíli see that the mountain is safe and supplied. Óin will care for the health of your people, Glóin for our wealth. Bifur will mind the birds and make the place welcoming for children, Bombur will see we're fed and comforted. Dori will help the tetchy business of diplomacy with merchants and craftspeople. _I_ am here to help you learn from the mistakes of the past and do better.” Ori was red-faced by the end, eyes blazing.

Fíli stared at the fierce little picture Ori made, earnest and young, but desperately wise all the same. The Heir stood, slowly, blinking misty eyes. Rounding the desk, Fíli pulled Ori out of the chair with both hands and leaned their foreheads together.

“I accept your service,” Fíli said, voice rougher than it was meant to be. “I accept it and swear to uphold the trust you place in me, to the best of my ability.”

Ori squeezed their hands together. “My King-that-shall-be. I know it.”

 


End file.
